The Beauty in a Childs Death

Azrail heard voices, the voices of everyone. As you can imagine if every thought of every person was screaming in your head, you would want to die, as Azrail wanted. His parents never believed him. They thought he was mad, deranged, psychotic, insane. Azrail had heard it all, seventeen years spent in and out of mental institutions made sure of that.

Azrail sits at a desk in his dad’s office. The room is dark and depressing- the wallpaper is dreary and grey, the air is too cold. Every part of Azrail’s body is shaking, his eyes flicker uncontrollably in every direction, his mind won’t let him rest. With immense effort, Azrail manages to focus his gaze down on the bottom most drawer of the desk, the only one locked. With a trembling hand, Azrail prys it open. Inside is a Russian Nagant M1895.

He takes out the gun, it makes a soft thud as he places it on the smooth wood of the desk. It’s quiet enough that only a person listening closely could hear it. Azrail’s mother calls out from the kitchen asking if everything is okay. Azrail makes no effort to answer.

Azrail reaches over to take the gun into his left hand, in the other is the needle. The gun looks strange in Azrail’s hand, sleek and bold, in contrast to his ghostly pale skin. His hands are shaking nonstop. He places a single round in the revolver, spins the cylinder and cocks the gun. He wants to give him Chance. Whether or not he lives is up to god- Placing the muzzle against his head, Azrail feels everything stop and time suddenly turns sluggish. Distracted, his mind drowning in a wave of color, sound, feeling, and the ever-constant voices., he pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Azrail realizes, with a start, that he has frozen the bullet in place, millimeters from his temple. He can hardly feel the strain of exertion beneath the thundering rush of blood in his ears. In that moment of time, with death looming just within Azrail’s reach, he pauses and begins to think. Really think. About everything, about his life, about his parents, about the point to everything he’s suffered through, about the reason for the voices that consume his every waking moment.

Azrail takes one more moment, then lets go. He’s dead.

His death is not painful as one might expect, It’s beautiful. The color red finally gives color to the walls, the sound of his mother’s cry echoing the dark room. The emotions in that room are so perfect that there aren’t words to describe it.

Azrail looks from the outside in, now, on this most perfect of scenes. He cries from this scene, not of sadness or because of his death, but because he knows only God could make something so beautiful. Azrail pauses, listening carefully. He hears nothing.